Bleed For Me
by Steefwaterbutter
Summary: AU of 1x13 "The Front Man," in which Lindsey is able to escape and a still-kidnapped Neal is left to deal with Wilkes' wrath. So, there may have been a slight flaw in the plan after all... (Contains lots of Neal!whump, but nothing over a T rating)
1. Neal

_A/N: This story is wholeheartedly dedicated to my wonderful beta/pen pal Cosette141. She's the one that dragged me into White Collar, and after I mentioned being dissatisfied with the lack of whump in "The Front Man" and how I was going to think up some scenario it could have gone waaaay "better" she was basically like OMGGGGGGG WRITE IT. About 150 emails later, here we are. Enjoy!_

* * *

The only sensation Neal had left was that of his back, pinned against the wall. He couldn't even feel the sensation of his own skull, thumping against the cheap plaster, keeping time with each slam of the man's fist against his face. He wasn't sure when the punches had stopped being individual blows, and instead melded into a continuous stream of burning punishment, a ravenous painter sweeping the canvas, not bothering to lift his brush until the whole canvas was covered in dripping paint.

That's probably what his face—the one with the smile that could melt any young lady's heart—had been reduced to by now. A canvas covered in drops of red.

"You shouldn't have done that, Neal." Wilkes' vanilla-smooth voice cut through the haze of scarlet before the distraction was shattered by knuckles slamming against Neal's forehead. "That girl was my linchpin, after all. You've made me angry." Another crack in the plaster. "Though I must admit, watching you bleed is quite cathartic."

The iron band around Neal's right arm tightened, and someone let out a soft chuckle.

Then, from somewhere in the swirling mass of blows slipped a ray of silence. He grabbed onto that, opening his mouth to speak.

"What was—" Bruised vocal cords scraping against one another, barely recognizable, even to himself. A pause in the hurricane of beaten brushstrokes upon the canvas.

He took the opportunity to suck in a breath, eyelids cracking open. Reality swam like a watercolor left out in the rain, blurred colors bleeding into one another.

"What was I supposed to do..." A ragged intake of breath, just trying to keep his eyes from closing. He could feel the blood leaking out of his nose, tickling his lip. "Just leave... her there… forced to watch… that guy and his… awful table manners?"

The man with the red stained hands glanced at Wilkes. "Well," Wilkes said, gesturing to the painter to step back, for now, "you better thank that little girl for what she did." His hands reached out, closing around the lapels of Neal's suit. Then reality tilted, trying to twist itself inside out as his feet dangled.

"You see, thanks to her, I don't get all the time I want with you. She's going to go running to the FBI and tell them exactly where I kept you." Wilkes' face was close now, close enough for Neal to make out his unsmiling expression, close enough to make out the whispered words, "At least I still get to kill you."

His hands fell away and Neal felt his body crumple.

The painter tossing a match onto the dry canvas and watching the fire ripple over the ruined masterpiece.

Somewhere in the back of his throat, the taste of acid was rising, layering over the taste of coppery blood on his tongue. He lay still with his burning cheek against the cold floor, eyes still open, watching Wilkes rub his hands, one over another, twisting the fingers together, scraping his the palms together.

"Alright, boys, let's pack up. Our work's done for now." He stepped out of Neal's eyesight. "Let's not forget to take out the trash before we leave."

Neal felt his body begin to shake. He closed his eyes and thought of Kate.

 _Crunch._

Pain exploded in his ankle. A silent scream jerked through his body, but before he could even open his mouth—

The smash of a boot against his stomach and everything he'd eaten that day came forcing its way up his throat, blocking out the air.

It was almost enough to block out the fresh pain ripping through his abdomen.

 _One…_

 _Two…_

 _Three…_

 _Fo…_

…

… _help…_ The invisible hand fell away from his throat, and the air came rushing in. Neal curled into himself, but something latched onto his shoulder, beginning to drag his useless body where he didn't want to go. Arms, legs, trailing limply against the ground. Streaks of red following close behind.

… _pl.._

 _please_

The taste of acid and blood still burned in his mouth, but he opened it anyway, the words scraping in his throat. "You really think that—"

It was the beginning of some silver-tongued speech that had to convince Wilkes to let him continue drawing breath, but before he could say more, the cold concrete smacked into his face, sending shivers through his entire body.

Fingers wrapped themselves around Neal's hair and jerked his head up. Neal blinked, and once again saw Wilkes, crouching beside him.

His head ached.

Wilkes said, "No, Neal. You're not useful to me anymore. Without the girl, I doubt I could get you to do much. Few minutes from now, you're going to be dead." His blurry form rocked back and forth on his heels, tossing a cell phone from hand to hand. "Give or take half an hour from that, Elizabeth Burke's gonna find your body. Nice little demonstration of what I can get away with." He let go, and although Neal knew his body was still laying there on the concrete, he was falling, drowning in a vortex of swirling red. "I'd love to stick around, but like I said, busy schedule."

Another hand swooped down and grabbed a fistful of Neal's business shirt, the once cool, pleasant material sticky against his skin, and dragged. A door opened and shut, then he could head the sound of water splashing. His body over uneven ground.

And his breath was tearing in and out of his throat, the sound loud and thrashing in his ears, pounding against his head like a physical blow.

"N-no…" he said, but his voice came out weak and strangled. "No, _don't_ —"

With what little strength he had left he began thrashing in the man's grip. "Pe… ter…" he gasped. "I… _h-help_ …"

His fingers were clawing at the man's wrist, but the man simply grabbed Neal's wrist, shoving his fingers back until Neal let out a strangled cry of pain.

Sudden cold. It closed over his head, smothering him in a blanket of shivering frigidity. It wiped out the sound of his breath. He could feel his body twitching.

He had to wait. He had to wait until the men left. He had to wait until it looked like he was dead.

.

 _They never mentioned how lonely it was._

.

A faint trail of air slipped out, and Neal felt his heart slam against his ribcage. _Out,_ every muscle and nerve of his body screamed in a perfect symphony of panic. _Get out of here._

 _._

The canvas continued to burn.

.

Neal clawed at the water, but there was nothing to grab on to. Pain ripped, white-hot fire, through his broken ankle as he thrashed in the water, the liquid death that would slowly fill his body. Black and scarlet bled across his vision, interlacing like streaks of a Van Gogh.

Then faded gray and brown planks of the docks slipped into his vision. The rough wood scraped against his hands as he clung to the boards, trying to pull his broken body out of the water. It pressed into his stomach, making him open his mouth to cry out at the pain.

.

The fire licked up the last specks of canvas.

.

.

And darkness swallowed him.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

.

 _A/N: (Rambling ahead) Hehe, okay, so this was probably the most fun part to write, though I'm having fun with all of them. (I love describing pain way too much OMG). I actually slowed down a ton while writing the first bit of it, starting sentences, then taking notes on how it could be better, like this:_

 _***The burn of pain ripples across Neal's face. The punches bleed into one another like a painter attacking the canvas with one violent brushstroke after another until the canvas is covered in dripping paint. That's probably what his face—the one with the smile that could melt any young woman's heart—has been reduced to by now. A canvas covered in dripping red.***_

 _Hm, good, but needs more clues to the setting, and a better first line._

 _Maybe **Throat. Nose. Cheekbone. I can hardly tell where each blow is landing*_

 _Oh, I got a setting one._

 _**The only sensation Neal had left was that of his back, slumped against the wall. He couldn't even feel the sensation of his own skull, thumping against the cheap drywall,_ _keeping_ _time with each slam of the man's fist against his face._

 _._

 _It turned out to be a ton of fun, some of the most fun I've had while writing for a while. I wanted a more original voice to make things more unique and interesting, so I tried to really make it Neal's voice. As an art student myself, I decided to do a sort of "extended metaphor" of a painting, which was also semi-inspired by the game "Layers of Fear."_

 _Anyway, if you liked it, please review~! Thanks :D_


	2. Elizabeth

_A/Not: Huge, huge shout out to cosette141 for helping me with this chapter. This chapter would not have been even half as good without all her (huge block of XD) prompts and tips on how to shoot the feels up over 9,000 and basically make everything a million times better, hahaha. Anyway, it's 12:35, been a long day... OHHHH and thanks for the reviews (and favorites and follows) Y'all are great!_

* * *

It was a Friday and that meant there were half a dozen clients trying to call and schedule, even though Elizabeth Burkes had made it quite clear she was already full, several more trying to follow up or report that they had misplaced their paperwork or the cake wasn't the right shade of pink or…

And then there was the mysterious customer who demanded she meet him on the docks half and hour from when he called, leaving only a name behind: Nick Halden.

" _I think you'll like what you'll find."_

She'd almost decided to ignore him, but since she was already in the area, it wouldn't hurt to check it out. After all, the customer came first.

Elizabeth stepped onto the wooden planks, eyes scanning over the stretch of docks.

Some—

Someone was weakly clinging onto the docks, his body half-submerged in water. It almost looked like— _Oh no. No, no—_

A shiver wrapped around Elizabeth's spine and she was sprinting forward—

 _Neal._

—watching his grip on the planks slip away, his body sliding back towards the water.

She felt her fingers latch onto his wrists, yanking backwards. His body was a limp weight in her hands as she dragged him forward, onto the safety of the docks.

A bit of blood leaked out from his lips, and the sight made her own run cold.

"Neal, honey," she heard herself say, though she couldn't remember forming the words. He didn't respond, didn't move from where he was now crumpled on the wood. Then she was pressing her trembling fingers to his wrist, his skin cold under her fingers. " _Neal_ , don't—don't do this to me."

His heartbeat thrummed under her fingers, racing nearly as fast as her own. But it was there.

He was a trembling, bloodied mess, a sight that made Elizabeth draw in a sharp breath. Wet hair plastered to his bruised face. A splatter of bruises was smeared across his cheekbone, under his eye, and his lip had been split, still leaking blood. The red liquid was trailing out from his nose as well.

" _I think you'll like what you'll find."_

Elizabeth's gaze jerked up from the prone form of Neal, her breath catching in her throat.

No one.

She continued to stare, small shivers running through her body. That man. The one who had called her. The one who had hurt Neal.

He was still out there. Somewhere.

Her fingers quivered from where they were pressed against Neal's wrist, still feeling the racing pulse of his heart, but this time, it was from more than just fear.

Then Neal shivered, although it was more like a deep shudder than ran all the way through his body, up her arm, causing her to shiver as well. Blood continued to drip from his nose, staining the wood beneath him.

Elizabeth let out a small shushing noise, automatically lifting her hand to softly pinch Neal's nose, as if all he was suffering from was a nosebleed. As if that one action could make everything right. Her mind whirled, trying to think of what the best course of action would be.

He was bleeding and that was all she could see.

Then Neal made a noise that might have been the start of words, but all that really came out was a quiet moan. It was quiet, but enough to startle her into action.

"Neal?" Her voice shook, too loud. "Neal, honey, open your eyes, please."

He didn't respond. Elizabeth squeezed his shoulder and he gave a weak cough, water dribbling out of his mouth. Then another cough shook through his body, and he was struggling to breathe, gasping in and out in uneven measures. Eyes flicked open, then squeezed shut again, eyes that were startlingly blue, and filled to the brim with fear.

It broke her heart.

It was hard to imagine this man as the "alleged" art thief her husband had relentlessly chased for years. Right now, he just looked like a scared young boy.

"Neal, just calm down, okay? You're safe now. You're safe." She kept her voice soft and soothing, her arms shaking as she wrapped them around him and pulled him close, guiding his head into her lap.

"'M… stomach…" Neal gasped out, his voice quiet and ragged, eyes desperate as he stared up at her. "I think… internal… bleed—" It broke off into another wet cough. The water that leaked out of his mouth was pinkish.

A shudder of cold slammed through Elizabeth's body, hands reaching out towards her bag. Peter. Peter would know what to do.

 _Just keep breathing, Neal. Please don't stop breathing._

Her fingers found the numbers she knew by heart, and then she was pressing the phone to her ear, the other hand working its way into Neal's dark hair, stroking it over and over while he shivered.

"Hurts…"

Maybe she should be calling an ambulance instead, he was bleeding, he—

" _Hey, hon,"_ Peter's voice. Elizabeth lifted a hand to her mouth, wanting to let out a sob of relief. Peter would know what to do. _"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to call you back, Neal's in danger—"_

"Neal's right here," she said, and this time she couldn't hold back in the crack in her voice. Hearing those words coming from her husband, those concrete words, made it real. _Neal's in danger._ "I—I got a phone call—someone—I think it was whoever did this to him—"

" _What?"_ Even over the line, she could feel the blunt force of that word. The tinge of panic in his otherwise firm tone. " _Did_ what _to him?"_

Elizabeth swallowed, fighting down another sob. "I… he's bleeding, Peter, he's bleeding so much—" She heard Neal drawing in a shuddering breath, trying to draw in air, fighting against his own body. "Neal—" A quiet whimper, one she couldn't hold back any longer. "Neal, it's okay." Saying words she wasn't quite sure she believed, one hand moving to cup his cold cheek, the other gripping the phone so tight she was surprised it didn't crack. "He can hardly breathe, Peter! I… he almost drowned and I don't know what to do and… I—I'm scared and—"

" _El—okay, hey."_ Peter's voice cut her off, enough for her to draw in a shuddering breath. " _Hey, honey, calm down."_ His tone didn't match his words, though she could sense him trying to keep it under control. " _Where are you?"_

She somehow got the address out between hiccupping breaths. That, at least, she could do. Peter would know what to do. He had to. Her fingers clung to the phone, listening as her husband shouted orders to someone.

Neal let out another soft moan, and one arm tightened around his stomach. She shushed him again, thumb stroking back and forth on his cheekbone.

She'd never really worried much about him before. He was an enigma, a larger than life con man, a sly fox of a thief who could steal the eggs from the henhouse without ruffling a feather.

But now… seeing him like this…

It was different.

" _El? You still with me? Can you tell me what happened?"_

"He… someone tortured him." Elizabeth took another breath, trying to steady herself, fingers still lacing through Neal's soaked hair, watching as the water dripped down his bloodied face, doing her best to comfort him... but he didn't even seem to know she was there. "They… tried to drown him."

" _He's still breathing though? Do you have him on his side?"_

"Y-yes and yes. But I think there's internal bleeding, I think he's got a concussion, I don't know what to do, Peter, I don't know..."

There it was again. Sending her into a spiraling vortex of fear and darkness, and Neal's hurting and she didn't know how to make it stop. _This isn't my world._ The choking sensation was rising up in her throat and she's so _scared…_

Neal's breathing had slowed. She shook his shoulder, gently at first, then frantically when he didn't respond.

"Peter," she choked out, unable to stop the tears anymore. "Peter, he's not responding. I _need you._ Neal needs you, _please_ , I can't _do_ this—!"

" _El, honey, listen to me."_

She let out a hiccupping breath, pressing her hand over Neal's forehead.

" _You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. I know you'll keep Neal safe until I get there. He's going to be okay. Because I know you. And I know you won't let anything happen to him. Just try and wake him up, and keep his mouth clear, okay? Stay on the line, I'll be back in just a moment."_

There was the clunk of a phone being set down, then she could hear Peter shouting out orders again.

Elizabeth let out a long, shuddering breath, glancing down at the still form of Neal. Her hand was still pressed to his forehead, and for a moment it felt as though she was simply checking for a fever. Like a mother would do for her son.

For her son.

 _Her son._

At any other time, the thought might have made her laugh. She's only about ten years older than him, and…

There's something about it. Neal, completely vulnerable in her arms. She was the only one who could protect him.

So, she held on. She held him close and prayed.

* * *

 _To be continued..._

 _Also Elizabeth is one of my favorite characters ever, so I hope I did her justice! (Also, if anyone has any h/c stories that include Elizabeth and Neal, hit me up. *finger guns*)_


	3. Peter

_A/N: Ack, I'm so sorry! XD_

 _Life, uh, happened. Mostly college. That, and coming back to the dorm at 1 in the morning and 8 AM classes and yeah... :P_

 _But it's done now! Took way longer than it should have, but it's done!_

* * *

The air hung with a sort of peaceful uneasiness. Maybe all hospitals were that way, Peter mused to himself, shifting on the chair that had long since become uncomfortable. Maybe it was the quiet, broken only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. A steady sound. An uneasy one.

Anything was better than the sound of Elizabeth's panicked voice—

 _"_ _He's bleeding, Peter, he's bleeding so much—"_

He never thought he'd see the day when Neal Caffery, of all people was quiet. Even when he was quiet his eyes told volumes of unbridled mischief.

But now—

 _"_ _El—El, it's okay, I'm here now."_

 _"_ _P-Peter—" One hand reaching up to latch onto his, the other still wrapped around Neal's shoulders. "Peter—help him."_

 _The horrible twisting nausea in Peter's stomach as his eyes flicked over the scene, the slap of the waves against the dock clashing in his ears._

Neal was still asleep. The bruises on his face were dark indeed, contrasting sharply against his pale skin. Dark, messy hair fell over the bandages wrapped around his forehead. Peter gave a small sigh, and reached forward to brush back the mussed hair, careful not to disturb Elizabeth. She had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder almost half an hour ago, one of her hands still intertwined with his. A definite restriction on his movement, but he wouldn't have woken her up for the world.

He smiled down at her and gave it a slight squeeze. "Three people in the room, and I'm the only one who bothered to stay awake," he said, something almost like a laugh tinging his words, a bit of nervous energy that overflowed into some sort of chuckle.

 _Neal intakes a wheezing breath that turns into a wet cough_.

 _The color of red._

 _"_ _Definite internal bleeding." Peter stands up, jerking a hand through his hair, breath sawing in and out between his clenched teeth. "C'mon, where are they?"_

The same nervous energy that was now tickling in his arm. He reached forward again and placed a hand on Neal's hair, brushing his thumb back and forth, watching as Neal's bruised and beaten chest rose and fell with each small breath. It was a simple movement, one to keep his hands busy while he waited. It wasn't some grand show of affection or anything like that.

Just something to remind him that Neal was here. That he was safe.

 _He'd seen so many scenes like this before, he should be used to it but this is someone he knows, someone he… he cares…_

"How is he?"

The soft click of a door shutting. He hadn't even heard it open. Peter jerked his hand back, running it down his leg in an effort to appear casual as he turned to face the speaker.

Agent Rice.

His body tensed, his hand free hand curling into a fist before he slowly let it go. Even though… even though everything had turned out all right in the end, she was the reason Neal was here. After spending years at a job of placing blame, he wasn't about to put all of this one on himself.

She hung near the door, shifting her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet. The stance of someone ready to move at a moment's notice.

Peter pursed his lips, glancing back down at Neal. The smell of pine quat tickled his nose. "Moderate to severe internal bleeding, concussion, fractured nose, broken ankle, top it off with some water inhalation. Not to mention you scared my wife half out of her mind."

"I—I know…" Rice bit her lip, eyes darting towards the door. "I know, and… I just came her to tell you I'm sorry."

His must have face hardened; Agent Rice flinched. "Don't tell me," he said. "Tell Neal. Tell _me_ that you won't ever pull that crap again."

She took a breath, some of the spark returning to her eyes as she squared her shoulders. "I will be better."

He almost rolled his eyes at her choice of words, something loosening ever so slightly inside of him.. A typical Agent Kimberly Rice statement. She was going to be the best everything else coming second to that one goal. At least right now her heart was in the right place.

"Good. Now tell Neal you're sorry."

After a moment, Rice closed her eyes, pasted a smile on her face and took a step away from the door.

"I regret my actions, Neal. And I hope you can forgive me, someday." She turned to Peter, muttering, "This is stupid, he can't even hear me."

Peter felt his lips rise in a small smirk, probably the first time he'd done so since this whole situation started. "I wouldn't put it past him."

She gave him a look, then slipped back out the door.

A soft click, and quiet reigned once more.

He wasn't sure how much later it was. Time moved differently here, sneaking through the cracks in the pale colored walls, between the steady beep of the heart monitor.

It was the change of sound that roused Peter from that dazed stupor he slipped into some immeasurable amount of time earlier.

The clicks had increased in their frequency. Peter glanced over just in time to see Neal's eyes snap open, saw him try to gulp in a huge breath of air, an action that quickly lead to several hoarse coughs.

"Easy, Neal," Peter said, moving forward to place his hand on Neal's hair—any more coughing and he might do even more damage to his internal organs. "Take it easy."

Neal let out a soft moan slumped back, closing his eyes and wrapping an arm around his stomach—offering it what little protection he could.

"Neal?" Elizabeth's voice, sounding groggy. Peter inwardly kicked himself. He must have startled her awake when he moved.

"What… happened?" Neal asked. His eyes remained squeezed shut, his voice barely above a whisper.

Peter let out a sigh. He was about to remove his hand, but then he felt Neal relaxing under his touch. "What do you remember?" he asked, resuming the movement of stroking his thumb back and forth across Neal's dark hair. The beeping slowed, returning to a normal pace.

"Wilkes…" Neal's eyes blinked back open, slightly glazed. Pain and painkillers collided in his gaze, slurring his speech. "He… decided he didn't need me anymore."

His body stiffed. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Elizabeth giving him a look before jumping in with a "But you're safe now, Neal."

"Elizabeth's the one who really rescued you," Peter said. "Even after we all got there, she didn't want to let go of you until she knew you were gonna be okay."

"Oh… Yeah… she petted my hair." Neal's lips twitched into a half-smirk. Then it dropped. "You're…" His voice slurred, his eyelids drooping. "You're not gonna… throw m' out, are you?"

Peter felt a small smile work its way on to his face. "No, Neal. I'm not going to throw you out."

"But wh… what if I'm not any good at cases anymore? That'd never happen, but what if it did?"

Peter took a breath and let it out. Most people would consider Neal as not much more than an asset, and an untrustworthy one at that. Always hanging on the edge of becoming useless, of being sent back to jail.

One who'd take a mile if you gave him an inch.

One who was bruised and blooded and drugged to high heaven, who probably wouldn't even remember this question.

Who was just looking for a scrap of something to hold on to.

"I promise Neal, that I won't abandon you. I've got your back."

"…never?"

"Never again," Peter said, leaning forward to let one hand rest on Neal's forehead as the young man's eyes slid shut. "Never."


End file.
